What Is And Should Never Be
by jennyel
Summary: "Life In The Fast Line" written from Marge's perspective.


You know, I always wondered what my life would be like when I was thirty - it always seemed like a nice round number, when I would be old enough to get away from home, and Patty and Selma in particular. I used to have it all planned... we'd have a nice house in the country, nothing too big, I guess. I'd stay at home all day while my husband was at work (I had hoped I'd be married to Ringo, but bitter experience had made me limit even my dreams), painting and looking after the children. One boy, one girl, who would all the love and affection they could ever need. And maybe, just maybe, even mother would be proud of me.  
  
So when that bowling ball landed on my dinner plate in that restaurant, Homer's idea of a special birthday present for my thirtieth, I guess that reality hit home hard.  
  
I cried myself to sleep that night; he was too drunk to notice. "It's your own fault, you married him." was all that mom would say to me the next day, before she started again on Archie Ziff. But then, she never was very patient with me when I went to her with my problems. "Marjorie, you never see the popular girls cry, do you?"  
  
Thirty years old, and what did I have to show for it? Four children to look after, a pile of old canvasses rotting in the cellar, and a bowling bowl. It even had "HOMER" written across it. That damn ball stood for my entire life - the plate it had crushed might as well have been my soul. Something had to give; Bart was getting worse, and I couldn't stand to see Lisa's talents drain away. It was hard not to tell her she shouldn't bother with her saxophone or her schoolwork.  
  
It was on one of those nights when I laid awake that I realised I had to get out of that house. But where could I go?  
  
I caught a glimpse of the ball through my tears. If the only thing Homer could think to get me for my birthday was a bowling ball, I guessed that I might as well go bowling.  
  
* * *  
  
I didn't belong there; he must have known as soon as he saw me walk in. I got the same funny looks of surprise, amusement and content from the bowlers that I did from the diners in that restaurant where the ball fell into my lap. The man who had to search for five minutes for a pair of bowling shoes in my size curtly informed me that my long dress wasn't exactly practical for a bowling alley. I stood out for miles; no wonder he noticed me.  
  
I felt ridiculous, I wanted to go home. I probably would have, back to my life as an unglorified maid if he hadn't come over.  
  
"Good evening, I don't think we've had the pleasure. I'm Jacques." he said.  
  
He was good looking, there was no doubt about that. He was well dressed and groomed, and had an air of European class about him - I couldn't help but notice that. In fact, neither of us fitted in with the usual clientele of Barney's Bowlarama. I mentioned that to him, once: "Oh, dear Marge, it must have been... destiny!" was his reply.  
  
That first night he taught me how to bowl. He didn't become impatient with me when I struggled, like Patty and Selma did when we were children, and he seemed to genuinely want to spend time with me. It was a liberating experience, being able to talk to someone knowing they wouldn't ask anything of me.  
  
But, I was wrong about that. When he dropped me off outside the house at the end of that first night, he asked me if I would care to see him again.  
  
I looked at the house for a moment, unsure. People would talk; we were just friends, of course, but I knew that people would think differently. But then, something inside me turned. Was it really so wrong for me to do something that I wanted to do?  
  
"Sure", I said. But the truth was, I was far from sure.  
  
I saw Jacques more and more over the next few weeks. We were supposed to be talking about bowling, but the truth is we rarely did. Most of the time, I would talk, and Jacques would listen. He wouldn't hurry me, or look bored, or start ogling other women like Homer would. We walk talk and talk, about anything and everything, and all the time Jacques acted as if I was the most important person on the planet. On the occasions when we went out together, he seemed proud to be with me.   
  
Not that we went out very often. I didn't want people to get the wrong idea.  
  
Of course, I wasn't worried about people in general; I'd had enough disapproving glances and sarcastic comments, mostly from my own family, over the years. I was worried about Homer.  
  
One night, I came in and he was sat on the couch. Lisa was curled up next to him, fast asleep.  
  
"She couldn't sleep." he whispered. "She's been having nightmares again. She was asking for you, but I couldn't tell her where you'd gone."  
  
"I've been out.. with a friend." I said, hesitantly. It wasn't like Lisa to have nightmares, or get upset like when I went out. But it was like her to pick up on a situation and let it worry her.  
  
"That's what I thought." Homer said, sounding uncertain as he picked her up in his arms. He walked out of the room with her, and turned to me for a moment. "Marge?"  
  
"Yes, Homer?"  
  
He was quiet for a moment. I've known Homer J.Simpson long enough to be able to tell when something is bothering him, and it was plain to see that he sat up awake for a reason. "Ohh.. nothing." he said, and disappeared up the stairs.  
  
* * *  
  
I saw Jacques more and more as time passed - I didn't want to upset Homer or the kids, but I have to admit I found it hard not to see him. It's hard to explain what an effect it had on me, after all those years of only being noticed when the washing hadn't been done or the dinner hadn't been made, to suddenly have a friend who hung on my every word, who genuinely wanted my company. Because that's all we were; friends.  
  
That was, until he said something to me one night in his car. "Marge?" he asked, unsually tense. I don't think I'd ever seen him anything less than totally cool before.  
  
"Yes?" I asked him.  
  
"I want to ask you something, but I'm afraid. I'm afraid of what your answer will be. I'm afraid I'll lose something so precious to me." He paused for a minute. Looking back, I think he wanted me to say something, but I was never very good at reading signs from people. "Marge... will you come to my apartment tomorrow night?"  
  
"Sure! I'd love to see your place." I said, naively. We had mostly confined our meetings to Barney's before now, and I genuinely wanted to see where he lived.  
  
"Marge." He said, putting his hand tentatively on mine. "I want you to come for... for... something more than a casual visit."  
  
I sat there dumbstruck. I may not be very good at reading signs, but it was pretty impossible to miss these.  
  
"I understand how hard this is for you." He said. "But if feel how I do, please, be there at five o'clock tomorrow. If you're not there... I understand."  
  
I stared at him for a moment. The question was, how did I feel? Jacques was special to me. He made me feel like I'd always wanted to feel, how I'd never really felt before. But.. was he that special to me?  
  
"Err... I'd better go... into... the house." I mumbled, virtually falling out of his car and into the house.  
  
After the sleepless night that followed, Lisa walked up to me the next day as I busied myself in the kitchen. "Mom?" she asked.  
  
"Yes, honey?" I smiled at her. It was a fake smile, which I think agitated her even more.  
  
"You... you do love me, don't you? I mean, me, Bart and Maggie?"  
  
It hurt me to hear my own daughter feeling she needed to ask me that question. I kneeled down and put my hands on her shoulders. "Oh, Lisa, of course I do! Whatever made you think I didn't?"  
  
"Well, you haven't been here much lately." she said. "It's not something I've done, is it?"  
  
I put my arms around her and hugged her tightly. I used to do that every night when I tucked her into bed; shamefully, I couldn't even remember the last time I hugged her. "No, of course not sweetie!" I said. "It's just... well... I've met a new friend, and... well, I want to really get to know them."  
  
I could see the colour drain from her face right in front of me. She pulled away from me, and forced her face into a smile. Just like I used to do for mom. "I thought as much." she said, her voice sounding even more despairing for all the lightness she tried to force into it. She walked away slowly, her arms around her chest, her head bowed. I heard her talk to Bart. "I think I'm at phase four. Fear."  
  
Groaning to myself, I tried to blot out the advancing feelings of guilt. When you start to feel bad about something, bottle it up. Put your energies into something. That's what mom always told me to do. Diligently, I prepared Homer's sandwich for him, and put it in his lunchbox. I took it into the living room for him.  
  
"Homer, here's your lunch," I said, barely able to look at him.  
  
He turned his head up to face me slowly, as if he couldn't really summon the strength to face me either. He looked like a deer caught in someone's headlights. "Thanks." he said, nervously. "I... really like the way you make baloney sandwiches, you know. I don't think I tell you that enough..." Typical Homer.  
  
"Oh, Marge?" he added. I'd noticed the way he'd started calling me Marge, rather than something more affectionate. The distance between us was growing. "I'm... happy that you enjoy using that ball, I really am. And I'm happy that you've got a new friend. I hope they realise how lucky they are..." I stepped out into the kitchen again. I couldn't bear to hear Homer talking like that. I heard him sigh to himself, and then the slam of the front door.  
  
That day dragged along endlessly. As I always had, I threw myself into the housework - I had to do something. I found a half finished home-made birthday card in Bart's room; "TO MOM HAPY BIRTDAY LOV BART" I'm not surprised he never finished it. Not a lot of people realise just how sensitive Bart is about his spellings, and his problems at school.  
  
In Lisa's room, I found a family portrait under her pillow. Next to a copy of her favourite magazine, left open at the Agony Aunt page. There was a letter from 'L in Springfield', who was worried about how his or her father would cope in the break-up of his marriage. It must have been a coincidence... mustn't it?  
  
I found the biggest surprise in my own bedroom, in Homer's side of the closet. There was an easel in there, paints and brushes, and a card. I couldn't resist opening it. "TO MY DARLING WIFE IM SORY LETS MAKE UP"  
  
I sat on the bed, alone in my thoughts for what must have been an hour. I thought everything over - Jacques, Homer, the kids, my life, everything. I was only dragged out of my thoughts when Maggie woke up screaming in the next room and I had to see to her. After all, that's what I am, aren't I? A mother. A mother always has to put her family first.  
  
  
* * *   
  
Not long after five o'clock, there was a knock on the door. My heart pounded in my chest. This was the right decision, the only decision I could ever make. That's not to say it was easy. The right thing to do isn't always the easiest. The door swung open, and I allowed myself a smile. I was about to make the man who loved me very happy, I was certain of that.  
  
Homer walked into the dining room. I could see a weight lifted from his shoulders, maybe the weight of a bowling ball, as he saw the table laid out. I'd make his favourite meal, and the children, our children were sitting around waiting for him. Waiting for us to be a whole family once again.  
  
"What's all this?" he asked.  
  
"It's to celebrate." I smiled. "I've decided to retire from bowling."  
  
As I sat there amongst those who love me, I realised that I hadn't done badly for myself in my thirty years. Okay, so our house might not be in the country, Bart may not the perfect son, and Homer certainly isn't Ringo Starr. But although I might not have wanted it to be this way, I wouldn't change it for anything else. 


End file.
